Background Music
by icecreamlova
Summary: Two sisters, two worlds, and a relationship that couldn't stretch between them. Petunia remembers how she and Lily grew apart. Lily's dead now. So why is it so hard to let go?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Background Music**

**Author: icecreamlova**

**Fandom: Harry Potter**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: 'Harry Potter' and Petunia Dursley and all canon characters belong to J. K. Rowling, not me, but the OCs and the plot I consider to be mine.**

**Summary: Petunia Dursley is the most muggle of muggles, but her friends and family are not. Just because she wants to lead a boring life, it doesn't mean it was so, or even that it will be in the future.**

- - - - -

Petunia Dursley could not help but wonder if she was making a big mistake.

Her family—all of her blood-related family still alive, at least—was seated on the kitchen table, her son looking bored and eager for food, her husband with his head thrust into the morning paper, while her nephew tapped his fingers impatiently. For the last one she spared a biting gaze, which he seemed to ignore, before she turned back to her work at making dinner. It had to be special, since it would be the last time the four of them dined together.

Not that she regretted it. Her fingers tightened around the frying pan, and a fresh wave of heat gnawed at her face before she relaxed. Judging the food to be done well enough, she emptied the contents into a platter and brought all the food across to the table, bringing _four_ plates. Her nephew, that accursed freak, looked almost surprised and very suspicious of her motivation. He might well have. She'd changed the course of the meal.

It was Friday, and on Fridays they were supposed to have a bit of rice and fresh egg salad for dinner, with a side helping of fried fish, but it wasn't. Her husband, someone she loved but was not quite sure why exactly she felt that way, noticed.

"What's the special occasion, Petunia, dear?" Vernon Dursley asked inquisitively. He set the grey sheets down beside him, no doubt intent to read through it later that night as he always did. Petunia knew very well that, like a giant squid, he would only cling harder if it wasn't quite permitted. It was something she found comforting about him after years of being surrounded by her freaky sister, and then by an equally strange son.

She scowled to no one in particular, though she had the nagging feeling that Harry was taking the brunt of it. No matter. These sixteen years, all the prices—I was all _his_ fault, and that could hardly have been denied. Scraping caught her sharp ears, exceptionally careful because her neighbour's words were all the more easy to hear if she was vigilant, but she did not glance up until after the platters had been distributed and she was settled in on a chair on her husband's left. The cutlery had been carefully set before-hand. Even if there was difference, the perfect standard could never waver. One drop of dust and the whole place would soon be filled with cobwebs.

One wiz—no, one _freak_, and the place would soon be crowded by the children.

She set a rather fake smile on her face, made all the more delightful because both she and Harry clearly _knew_ it was not genuine. "Oh, just a little celebration that Harry is finally out in the world by himself. And a little good luck so he'll never have to return."

Her nephew looked like he wished to say something, but a sharp glare from Vernon deflected such a foolish notion. Oh, yes, her husband was both good and useful. After all, Harry Potter wouldn't be able to use magic for a while until he came of age.

The woman continued with a voice as falsely sweet as her smile was, "Of course, we probably won't take you in again, but I'm sure you won't need to return." She smoothed down her lacy apron which, without a single spatter of oil or stain, looked as if it had come right out of a housekeeping magazine rather than an hour in the kitchen. Magazines. Hm. She really needed to get a few more and see all angles of the new marriage and if it was good for the two actors.

A little more absentmindedly, her thoughts still half-on the lives of someone she could not even dream of touching or meeting: "After all, you'll be with your _own_ kind then, and I'm sure that you'll do at least as well as . . . _she_ . . . did back then. Then you'll meet someone as strange as you, and have a strange child who will _certainly not come here_!" She almost gasped when she noticed how her voice had grown in intensity and increasing loudness.

"Don't worry." Said Harry, and from the way he looked Petunia had a sneaking suspicious he was trying to keep his face neutral, although it was failing horribly, "I'll be sure not to bother you again with any business of my family. It will be a mutual pleasure to break off ties, I'm sure, aunt Petunia. There is no chance at all that anyone will connect you to me. There won't be any embarrassment involved."

Petunia almost wanted to ask 'for you or for me?' but she knew perfectly well that the words were mutual on either side. She wanted a normal life, and no nephew of hers would ruin it. And Vernon deserved it, after dealing with a brat all these years. At _her_ request, no doubt. She would really need to remember to thank him properly by abiding even further to the laws of his house. Petunia smiled. It was perfect and spotless, all white and cream and beige that suited her, and her family, just fine. Except, once more, for Harry.

"You ungrateful—" Vernon began.

Harry blinked, while the woman almost smirked. It _was_ doubly good. There was no way she'd let Dudley enter the word that Harry lived it. That her sister had lived in. The two had been separated so much that, apart from an unwelcome houseguest, a reminder of days long passed, there had been virtually no difference in the contact the two made when she died.

"Lets eat." She interrupted, soothing her husband with a smile.

For once she was grateful that her son ate so much that he didn't ask questions about the strange day.

Really—should she have changed the course, even for one day?

- - - - -

1

- - - - -

Petunia Evans looked at her baby sister with awe.

Lily was beautiful, with her green eyes and a stubble of red hair. Of course, Petunia wasn't much older either, but there was still something in her heart that made her look closely and admire her features, a protectiveness manifested although it was really the first time she'd met her sister. Little Lily was, after all, no more than a few hours old. Petunia had only been let in after she'd been washed, and her mother had found enough energy to stay propped up on a couple of pillows.

"Isn't she beautiful?" her mother asked, a smile gracing her face. Her mother, Rose, was beautiful, but even she could see the lines of weariness etched in the corner of her eyes. But there was a glow to Rose Evans as she looked at her daughter, eldest or youngest. Rich, auburn hair fell in curled locks to her shoulders, and Petunia knew from experience that it was as smooth as silk. She was too old to tug on the tresses now, of course; and she doubted she'd want to at the moment, it would pain her mother. And it was the same shade of red as Lily's.

Petunia touched her sister gently, carefully, feeling that the little girl might break if she so much as breathed too hard. "Very . . . nice, mummy. Sis . . . ter. Lily."

Rose seemed delighted at what Petunia was showing the baby. "Yes. Her name is Lily, love, and she is your baby sister."

"But what happened to my sister in your tummy?" Petunia persisted suddenly, eyes rising to meet Rose's brown ones. She couldn't understand what had happened to that noticeable bulge in her mother's stomach. After all, she didn't know much about birth, being so young herself.

Rose laughed once more, shaking her already-tangled red hair slightly. "This _is_ the child. She just came out of my stomach."

"How?"

"You'll know when you're older." Rose promised.

There was some more chatter that Petunia couldn't recall, the most vivid of her memories being when she'd met her young sister for the first time. That part stayed clear even when the background details became fuzzier and fuzzier until she could think of nothing but blurs whenever she tried to remember the medication her mother was on, what lay beside the cushions; the pattern on the crisp white gown her mother wore. But her meeting was etched into her mind.

It wasn't long before the Evans decided to leave and return to their home. The family was rather ordinary, really, her father being a real-estate agent and her mother a librarian. Petunia herself was an average student, not too high and not too low, even though it was hard to tell when she was still so young and fresh. Of course, they had their distinguishing features. Her father, David, was rather wealthy and her mother was a learned woman in some subjects, and was occasionally called to give lectures in a nearby university.

But Petunia Evans still enjoyed the peace and quiet the family had. It was not as if they were exciting or anything. Petunia learnt from both her father and mother, and she had her own experiences outside school, but all and all she still preferred to curl up on the couch and watch TV.

She hoped that, even with the arrival of her baby sister, the peace and quiet would stay.

- - - - -

It was a few weeks after Lily had been born, and like that day the weather was nothing short of a blessing. That morning, before the sun rose, Petunia Evans woke up to a world caught in the breath between night and dawn, the sky only just beginning to light up. Being where she lived, she knew that the sun always woke up later than her, since she was one routine and it was not, especially if a passing storm decided to shower, so she pulled on clothes she hardly noticed—fiercely proud that she could accomplish that by herself, never mind the mismatched shoes and unbuttoned buttonholes—and stepped up to look at the window.

As all days there was a chill in the air, only dispelled when the sun rose, so Petunia wasn't too worried when she noticed frost on the windowsill. She merely clambered up and wiped at the windows with a little hand, noticing with childish delight when the frost began to melt where her fingers touched the glass. But it was _cold_, and she couldn't keep it up much longer, so she pushed her hands back into warm pockets and stared outside through the circular hold she'd made.

Her breath was heavy when she noticed the beauty of the day, which was shaping up to be a clear one. And then, frowning, she noticed the frost moving back with unnatural speed. Gently, with caution that made her Petunia, she pressed her hand to the window once more. But the frost only spread even further forwards, out from her hand with branching tendrils like the saplings outside, still the flush of new life and birth, too busy growing to look at anything else.

She flinched as something cold brushed her fingers, sending chills up and down her arm, and more down her spine though Petunia thought it was because she was scared. Scared. Petunia was rarely scared, if only because she obeyed her parents well enough for them to be satisfied, if not very happy. But they'd _always_ been glad that she was their child, right?

Because her parents were everything to her. There were images of greyness and there was the sun and stars, but her world extended only so far as daddy's shoulders, and was only as warm as the hugs and kisses that her mother gave, gently, or passionately when Petunia became scared in the middle of the night and crept into her parent's room. Even her grandparents were nothing but images, albeit solid enough that Petunia knew there was something that _existed_ between the two sets that she loved.

There was her baby sister too, a little child that Petunia loved already, even though she was slightly annoyed that her mother didn't spend quite as much time with her as before. Still, the small smiles Rose gave were more and enough, and there was the rippling of her sister's wild laughter, as beautiful as she thought her mother. Her family, everything, it was the world to _her_!

And suddenly the room seemed the warm up again, and her breathing slowed though she hadn't realised that she was panting, as if she'd been chasing after the teddy that her parents had given her on her last birthday while her mother teased her with it for fun. Petunia frowned, biting her lip with the innocence of childishness when the ice abruptly melted in wake of the rising sun.

She shivered reflexively, turning quickly away from the window to lie in a huddle of blankets on the bed, wondering why she'd suddenly doubted her parents. Petunia would remember for years to come the cold feeling that took over her and almost stopped her from remembering the warmth in the world.

- - - - -

Petunia awoke early in the morning; she shivered. The last time she'd awoken this time in the day, there'd been a blanket of despair over her outlook in life. This time she dared not look at the window, merely stayed in bundle underneath her coverings. It was like that her mother found her an hour later, half-asleep and yet too afraid and alert to fully drift into unconsciousness, until the girl merely lay there is her eyes open, staring at the ceiling with a huge scowl on her mouth.

"Petunia, dear, it's time to get up." Rose said, smiling sweetly in a vain attempt to calm her daughter. When the little girl glanced over with huge, terrified eyes, she merely swept the girl into her arms, where Petunia lay contently. Her mother was warm, and it was warmth she wanted very much, more than that new doll she'd seen through the shop window. She clung, not letting go even if it startled her mother somewhat at her intensity.

"Mummy." She whispered.

"What?" Rose asked immediately.

But her feeling had already been chased away. She merely shook her head and pointed at herself, not saying any more than she needed. When she _really_ wanted something she either stayed silent or screeched when her mother wouldn't give it to her, but she'd been quiet recently. Petunia wasn't sure why. "I need to dress, mummy."

"Oh!" said Rose, her voice something akin to surprise. "Oh. Of course."

It didn't take long until the two were downstairs, Petunia staring at her bowl of porridge. Normally, she began eating straight away, quickly at that, but now she was thinking about things that, she would later realise, were too complicated for most children her age. Jealousy was utmost in her mind at the moment, although it was only a small flame in the back of the mind that was continually dosed by the smiles and gurgles Lily would admit to her blonde sister.

She wasn't given a chance to keep thinking, since a friend invited them over for a few hours, a place just outside their neighbourhood where the lawns were large and rolling and the grass always freshly cut to the extent of the front stretches always being full of dried hay; or wet, depending on the season. But Petunia, despite whatever passion she showed for flowers and their delicate petals, was bored with nothing to do.

For one, the friend didn't have any children her age, and neither were there any in the rather wealthy place they lived. For the next few hours, she could be found sitting on a small wicker chair outside, too tired to run around like a normal child would have. She'd always found the little things to be very pretty, those ordinary things that everybody seemed to miss: a flower slowly blooming, a mignonette that released a lovely perfume that made Petunia just a little bit too drowsy; the lazy way the clouds passed over the sky, adding so much to the effect that Petunia had to look down; and then, she would see the uncut grass.

The back garden, where she was currently settled down, was a square closed off by hedges too high for Petunia to see over, admitting only the vision of a tall, lemon tree from the next lawn down. The grass reached almost her ankles, although it wasn't saying much since Petunia was short, even though she could easily crane her neck to a considerable height. All she could see in any direction but up was green, with clover flowers hidden somewhere beneath, and a clump of the three-leaved types in a corner.

"Mummy," Petunia said slowly, suddenly, whirling around. Sure enough, her mother was standing on the back veranda, a sleeping Lily held gently in her arms, and again, Petunia felt that jolt of uncomfortably strong, negative feelings inside her. But then Lily yawned; Petunia turned away, trying not to be caught by the fascinating charm of her sister.

Rose responded, "Yes, darling?" in a way that made Petunia think that her mummy was happy and that, in turn, made a small smile stretch across her face.

"Nothing." She said, but the moment the words left her lips she felt _something_ was wrong.

Out of experience she glanced around, and spotted something with a potato-like head running through the hedges, and she shrank back with a shriek that brought Rose immediately by her side.

"What was it, Petunia?" Rose asked quickly, looking in the direction that Petunia was staring.

"There was . . ." Petunia said in alarm, shrinking back against her mother, pointing a wobbly finger. "There was a little man there! With a head like a potato!"

Rose frowned. "I'm sure there isn't anything." She said. And then to Petunia, "Don't tell tales."

"But—"

At that point a small, chubby hand rose between the leave of the blankets Rose held, immediately turning Petunia's attention away from the bushes; she noticed that her mother was no longer facing her either, but looking at the young girl in her arms. Whose arm, incidentally, was pointing up.

Petunia followed the hand, and smiled in delight. It was a beautiful bird, so white that it might have passed to be a cloud. She tugged her mother's skirt. "What is that bird, mummy?"

"Hm?" said Rose. "Oh. That's an _owl_." She sounded puzzled.

But Petunia didn't quite realise it, and she chose to ignore how her mother in favour of staring back at the bush.

- - - - -

The Evans' were known around the neighbourhood as a nice, young family that had few to no problems, with a young daughter who was generally quiet and so back-ground noise that no one ever noticed her. Recently, however, there'd been wails from the house at all hours of the night, and it hadn't taken long for the neighbours to realise what had happened.

They'd seen the swell of the stomach. They'd seen the flush of happiness that carrying a child gave. Now all that was left was to see the precious baby—a few friends were privileged enough to know it was a girl called Lily—and admire her. So the family started making phone calls and orders, not telling either Petunia or David or Rose, and soon managed to grab hold of the grandparents, who all thought it was a great idea. The two sets secretly flew down.

Petunia was still frowning and thinking of the little man in the bush when she followed her mother home, a piece of Rose's skirt screwed up and held tightly in her hand.

"Come one, Petunia, dear, let go of mummy so she can get Lily out." Said Rose, turning and aiming a soft glare at her.

The elder sister nodded, and smiled sweetly at the semiconscious baby who was gently lifted up from the car. She followed her mother to the door, not letting go of her mother's skirt now though she still stared with curiosity at Lily. Had she been this little when she'd been born from mummy's tummy? She'd matched her hand with the baby's, and had been rather satisfied and yet surprised that it was so much bigger than the infant's. Lily was still considered an infant now, although her hair was visibly auburn now and her green eyes sparked with interest whenever she saw a person walking nearby, deciding to shriek with happiness whenever a family member held her.

Not Petunia though, but this was because Petunia had only recently begun school, and someone as young as she was certainly not fit to hold a baby.

The room was dark and quiet, and for Petunia, who hated the dark, it was terrifying.

"SURPRISE!"

Petunia immediately screamed and pushed her face into her mother's skirt, only peeking out when she realised that there were adults, and that they were laughing. But all her fear vanished when she realised that they were laughing at _her_. Now, she didn't mind laughter, but it being directed _at_ her by everybody in the room was something else, and she could feel her voice beginning to tremble as both anger and humiliation got though.

"Stop—Granny!" Petunia started to whine, and then exclaimed when she saw her favourite grandmother. She ran to her and gave her a big hug, but then, suddenly, her granny let go and turned to look at someone else. Leaving the elder Evans sister to frown and bite her lip in a way which, although cute, was no match for Lily.

"Oh my, she's beautiful!"

"Such vivid green eyes, just like David's!"

"And she has your lovely hair, though it looks straight—"

"You should be proud—"

Petunia frowned and turned away from the chatter. When no one looked at her, she ran up to her room to escape the noise. It was hurting her ears. She refused to think it was hurting her heart.

- - - - -

"I'm Petunia Evans." She said, smiling at the redhead who'd just introduced herself shyly. She was the new student, but Petunia had found that they lived rather close together; almost close enough to be neighbours, but not quite. Petunia fell in step beside the girl, both on their ways home, who also flashed her own smile.

The girl held out a hand. "Laurel—"

"Figg." Petunia interrupted. "I heard today. So, do you like out school? I think the playground's pretty good."

"Hm." Said Laurel, face scrunching up in the classic style of hard thinking. It made Petunia giggle for some reason; Laurel followed soon, and the laugh lit up her face in a way that would make a whole room glow. Because Laurel _was_ a rather pretty girl, with her big eyes and cute angel lips, and the way she looked up in from the corner of her eyes when she smiled. It was the best way to describe Laurel; pretty, pouty and a little chubby in a good way, with baby fat that lingered in her cheeks for a rosy glow, and sturdy legs that made Petunia think that she could probably run fast when she needed to. "It's nice."

Petunia could feel her face falling slightly. "Just nice?"

"Well, yes," said Laurel, her face evening out into a smile. "But that's just because my old school was . . . _magical_. It was really, really old-ish you know, with that colour that you know just comes from stones. Like—like those really pretty pebbles we saw at school today. But not as dark."

Petunia thought for a moment. She responded slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Was it like those really old books that a mummy has?"

Laurel echoed Petunia's thoughtful looked. "I don't live with my mother. She died a long time ago. I don't really remember what happened, but Aunty says that there was a flash of green light, and then she was dead. I don't know why aunty didn't die, though. Maybe it's like when you know something's going to hit you, and you know it will hurt."

"Who's your aunt?" asked the Evans, looking at her with curiosity. "I thought everyone lived with their parents."

"No." Laurel replied sadly. "My mummy died, but I know she was magical, like those little fairies we read about today. But she was bigger." After a moment, she visibly brightened. "But I like Aunty Arabella Figg, which is why I'm staying with her now."

The two of them had reached Petunia's gate, where they paused for a moment, both smiling cheekily at Petunia's mother, who'd offered to bring Laurel home when she heard where the young girl lived. They'd run in front of the woman the moment they were on the footpath, away from Lily, who was being wheeled in her pram, not protesting even when the sidewalk became a little bumpy. Lily had taken her first steps a few days ago, but no one pressed her to continue. It had been a brilliant day, and they'd been too excited to take the car home, even if Rose _had_ brought it.

"Is she fun?" asked Petunia, grabbing onto Laurel's arm as she prepared to step on the neatly mown lawns. She scolded, "Don't do that," in a voice she thought sounded just like her mother, so she said no more.

"Very."

Petunia waited for Rose to catch up, and then smiled at Laurel. "See you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

- - - - -

She could feel that burning sensation she had whenever someone was spying on her once more.

It always began as an irregular tickling in the back of her head; strange, but not bad, and certainly not painful—yet. She would usually brush if off as those little urges everyone got at one time or another, especially those who were overly paranoid. She'd try to curb her curiosity, and turn away.

But it would never work, no matter how hard she tried.

Actually, such thoughts never ran through her head, as an older Petunia Evans—Dursley—would recall. She would merely be standing there, and then that funny feeling would begin until she whirled around and scanned from horizon to horizon, trying to spot whoever was gazing at her. More often than not it would be nothing more than her mother, or even her sister when she started walking and talking.

She concentrated, using her ears and craning her long neck to try and look in every direction. It was rather normal, the strange feeling everyone got when someone stared at them.

And then suddenly there was a squeal behind her as a bird flapped down towards her sister. She spun around in time to see it heading towards Lily, specifically towards the worm in her hand. Petunia didn't want to know why her one-year-old sister was holding one in the first place. But what surprised her most was what happened next:

Lily threw up her hands and shrieked, and flung the worm at the bird. Surprisingly, it hit; and the bird dropped the ground dead.

It was dead, and Petunia wondered why she wasn't more surprised. She would later wonder why she hadn't been afraid of something dying before her very eyes. But then, Lily had always been unusual—unusually cute, unusually pretty, unusually inquisitive, unusually clever, the list could go on and on. And she knew this.

But she wasn't the only one who'd seen what had happened.

That tickling sensation came back full force, so Petunia swivelled away from her sister to see a pair of incredulous eyes.

- - - - -

To be continued . . .

- - - - -


	2. Chapter 2

- - - - -

- - - - -

Someone nudged her arm. Petunia Dursley startled and glanced at her nephew, trying to banish the red in her face in vain. She couldn't remember why memories of her sister assaulted her all of her sudden, memories of her childhood when she'd been called Petunia Evans. The only legacy from that time was the thin, raven-haired youth in front of her now, bordering along the edge of manhood. His glasses shone under the light; she swallowed and forcefully pushed away all her memories.

"What is it?" she said, more sharply than she intended, more sharply than she usually spoke. Her tone towards him was always biting, so she wasn't surprised when he barely acknowledged the venom in her voice. "If you're done then clean your own dishes. I expect you to fulfil your chores."

She didn't miss the way he glanced at Dudley, a look that was unconsciously pointed. As sharp as her voice; as sharp as Lily's tone had ever been when dealing with her, or any bullies at school. Lily had always been rather fine-boned; but she'd always been strong too, and literally _magical_.

"Are you going to keep glaring at your _normal_ cousin," Petunia snapped, "or will you finish it by yourself?"

He glared at her, but did not bite. "I'll do it myself, Aunt Petunia."

He'd just risen to scrape of his plate when something _exploded_ above their heads, with two _cracks_ following soon afterwards..

And suddenly, everything seemed to be in slow motion. Petunia saw her husband rise, fear apparent in his eyes and in his every motion, she saw her _oh so courageous_ son hide under the table, and she saw a black stick suddenly materialise in her nephew's hands. Petunia herself had not moved an inch, frozen, and stayed still until Harry scowled.

"Get up and run! It must be Voldemort!" he barked out an order, and Petunia was all too glad to listen this time. But then something occurred to her.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. "Don't order me around, you accursed _nephew_ of mine."

"Aunt Petunia—"

"_Voldemort_ can't touch you here, remember?" she pointed out sharply. "You haven't turned seventeen yet. And for heaven's sake, stick that _thing_ back where it belongs, or the neighbours will see it. That man's followers aren't going to harm you without his order, and only he's to kill you. Besides, your friends keep tabs on you, and that accursed Arabella Finch too. And all those people from . . . from _that_ place, with that dratted and rude girl with pink hair—"

"Tonks."

Petunia stared at her nephew. "Tonks?"

"Her name is Tonks." Harry said, then rushed out the door. Petunia narrowed her eyes and followed him, closing the door behind her. She almost bumped into Harry, who'd stopped abruptly. He was staring at the three people in front of him.

There were two people his age, one that Petunia vaguely recognised as one of those awful children who'd whisked Harry away in his second year at _that_ school, and another that she'd met at the station the last time they'd picked Harry up. The ungrateful brat. And then she saw the third person, and her breath hitched, and she immediately started backing away in abrupt footsteps, eyes wide and air coming out in pants.

"No . . . " she said softly, only half-mindful that Harry was looking inquisitively at the horror on her face, "You—you're dead!"

"No." the woman straightened up, her tone sensible to Petunia's wavering. She was older now, but there was still the same baby-fat in her cheeks, and still a haunting beauty despite the dark circles under her eyes. "I'm alive. I'm very alive Petunia, and we have a _lot_ to talk about."

"No we don't." said Petunia, while Harry said in surprise, "Ron! Hermione! It took you long enough to get back here!"

The woman scowled in apparent disappointment "Have you forgotten _everything?_"

Petunia took a deep, shuddering breath. "I only wish to god I have."

- - - - -

2

- - - - -

It didn't take long for someone like Petunia Evans to realise that everyone loved Lily.

Now, this wouldn't have bothered her—her parents loved each other, right?—except that Petunia noticed how _easy_ it was to love Lily. As an infant and toddler Lily was the most adorable thing she'd ever seen, surpassing even the eloquent birds that sometimes landed on the bird-bath in their back yard. She couldn't help noticing the way Lily looked compared to her: the younger girl was rather fine-boned, with a Madonna-pretty face, and locks of red hair that were as thick as their mother's; her eyes were huge and almond-shaped, grasshopper green.

Lily had inherited the best out of both her parents, and while both their parents were good-looking, the combination only looked even better on someone like Lily. She'd already showed the signs of beauty at the tender age of four years old; pretty, and would some day have the type of warm, elegant beauty. But it went deeper than that. She'd started getting as inquisitive, and the clever mind showed on the set of her face.

Petunia, on the other hand, was nowhere near as blessed. Her hair was the type of blonde-brown that looked wonderful as a skin colour but completely and utterly horrible on the strands. She was taller than Lily, and while her bones weren't much bigger, the muscle accumulated in a way that negated the slenderness. Her eyes were odd in her family: large and pale, which looked wonderful on Rose but horrible on her. Her neck was too long, coupled with her heavy jaw and slightly hollowed cheeks, there was something slightly animalistic with her looks.

But while that would have been fine, her social status wasn't. Even at eight years old her only friend was the new girl, Laurel, and next to her Petunia felt just as gangly and ungraceful. However, when they were alone and playing with dolls, and later just playing around in the garden—Petunia loved gardening, especially her own namesake—she wouldn't feel nearly as naked. Their friendship ran deeper than that, however; Laurel knew so much about her family Petunia wasn't about to let her out.

One sunny day, three years after that first incident, when Petunia was going over to Laurel's for a bit of late tea, she asked her only friend, "Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Hm?" Laurel asked. Her face was almost vacant, but every time she grinned Petunia would be reminded of the wickedness and alertness in her mind. "About your sister? Oh, it's nothing special at all. I've seen lots of people who could do that. Why? Isn't it nice having a sister with strange abilities? I wouldn't mind having them at all, but Aunt Arabella says that I should have showed signs by now."

An older Petunia couldn't quite remember how long she'd stopped dead in her tracks, but she knew it had to have been a long time for Laurel to actually pause and glance back inquiringly. "What do you mean? Other people have these tricks? Your Aunt knows them as well?"

Laurel frowned and hooked her fingers under the straps of her schoolbag. "We're going there aren't we? You can ask her yourself. I don't know a lot about it, but though my aunt isn't as strange she'll probably know more than me. C'mon!"

". . . no." said Petunia, more forcefully than she'd intended. Smiling a little sheepishly, which she knew looked horrible on someone like her, she said a little more calmly, "please don't, Laurel. I don't want someone to know my sister's _different_. Being different is—not good in a place like this. _I_ don't want to be different, with the way I look."

The Figg turned around completely and cast a critical eye over Petunia, and the girl couldn't help but squirm under her sharp gaze. Finally, Laurel relented. She turned back to the front and said, "Don't say that, Petunia. You look fine to me. Besides, it's not like anyone judges you on the way you look. No-one would care less!"

Petunia raced to catch up with her friend when she started walking again, footsteps thumping on the pavement. It didn't take long before they were side by side, footsteps tapping at the same time. They walked in silence for a while, but when Ms Arabella's house came into view, Petunia said slowly, "I really don't want to know that much about whatever it is. I think being normal is soothing. It's nice to have a little change; maybe more than a little change, but—it's just—is would be so hard if I didn't have something to rely on."

Laurel looked at her thoughtfully again. "You know, most people our age wouldn't think of things like this."

Petunia smiled wryly. "I suppose I'm a little strange myself."

- - - - -

It wasn't the first time Petunia had come over to Laurel's house but it was certainly the first that she'd met Arabella Figg. The last time they'd simply entered and then shot straight through the corridor, and then into Laurel's pink-and-sky-blue room, closing the door with an audible, but not too loud, bang. She had heard Ms Figg's voice many times before, however, when the woman asked if Laurel 'and her friend' wished to have a snack.

Laurel had warned her not to, and Petunia took her word for it.

They waved to Petunia's neighbour as they passed his house, a very strange, black-haired man who always took the chance to wave to them and hand them sweets, before running past, a giggle trapped in their throats. This time Petunia took only a quick look at Mr. I. M. Muggle (or so was displayed on his letterbox, which had no number but was painted in the design of a kilt) before turning back to Laurel.

This time the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a kitten nuzzling her feet, and Petunia immediately realised this had to be Ms Figg. She had never really bothered to learn if it was a 'Ms' or a 'Mrs', but now that she'd seen the woman she had no doubt it was a 'Mrs'. Mrs Figg was, at first glance, the very old-fashioned, nurturing type. Her clothes weren't meant to be worn outdoors, and her slippers were worn thin, but comfortable-looking, and she had a rather homely look on her face.

"You must be Petunia Evans!" Mrs Figg exclaimed, not needing to look down to meet Petunia's dull brown eyes. It only hurt that Petunia knew this too. "Come in, come in. I'm Arabella Figg—Mrs Figg to you."

"Yes, Mrs Figg." Petunia said obediently. She slipped out of her school shoes and stepped inside. Brown eyes glanced absently across the interior of the room, before settling on the woman's face once more, and then at her own feet. She mumbled, "It's nice to meet you too." Even if she didn't find it particularly truthful.

She didn't know how Arabella Figg picked up on it as well, but she looked a little suspicious of her. Petunia hurriedly followed Laurel up to her room, stopping for a moment to remark on how neat and shiny the colours were. They suited _her_, but she wasn't sure how well it fit with Laurel. And she could tell that Mrs Figg was a cat-liking person, and cat-liking people never furnished their rooms with such fine furniture unless they were rich, or locked their cats into a cage all the time.

Petunia carefully put her bag in a corner and looked around the room. It was done up in a pale gold hue, like the rising sun, and that _did_ suit her friend very well. She found herself smoothing her hands over the seat she took, admiring the fine crocheting.

"What do you think?" Laurel asked abruptly, a strange look on her face that Petunia couldn't quite read. Humouring Laurel, she looked down once more, and so she didn't realise that Laurel's face was serious when she said, "I don't think I can live here much longer."

Accordingly, Petunia let sprout a giggle, which she though was a rather appropriate accompaniment to a joke. It was only when she lowered her hand from her mouth and looked at Laurel intently that she saw the way the rosy mouth was turned down at the edges. She frowned and leaned forward, head propped on her hand and her elbows digging into her thighs. "What do you mean?" she asked with all the innocence that an eight-year-old could still have, "Are you moving? You don't _look_ like you're going away, and—" Petunia lowered her gaze, "You're the only friend I have."

"Don't be silly." Laurel said briskly. "You'll make lots of friends." She looked down and frowned as well; then a sly smile spread across her face. "I know! Let's explore for a while and see what might be good about this place."

Petunia stared hard. She said with worry, "Will it be any use if Mrs Figg can't see it?"

Laurel took a deep breath. Her face and tone were kind when she told Petunia, "Sometimes, it's not just a place Petunia. When you move, it isn't always because you no longer see white letterboxes with black letters instead of yellow, or because there's a metre more grass around. It's always your friends that you miss, you know? When you feel like you need to leave someone behind, it just feels _wrong_."

"I don't have that many friends." Petunia reminded her own a little sadly. Still, her eyes looked thoughtful. "What do you mean, Laurel?"

Laurel sighed. "This place . . . is nice. It's very nice. But then sometimes I miss my family instead, and I miss my friends." She smiled at Petunia. "You're a very nice person Petunia. Really. And I'll come back and visit you! But maybe . . . it isn't my aunt that needs convincing."

"Laurel?"

The girl seemed to bolt up and snap out of her daze. "Never mind what I was saying, Petunia, but I still want to look around." She took Petunia's wrist and led her towards one of the overly large windows. "Let's go into that garden. The one with the big wall! We'll be like Rapunzel's dad, but we'll be doing it for fun instead."

Petunia examined it. Laurel was right, the wall was very tall and looked very old, with vines so brown they looked like dusty remainders of lush green ivy. Grass sprouted out of cracks, looking very much like the jagged peaks of the house inside. Everything was dark grey there, apart from the small patch of dark green in front, looking like some sort of herb garden. "But how will we get in, Laurel? I'm nowhere tall enough for that." She said dubiously.

Laurel merely giggled. "It'll be an adventure."

"I don't like adventures." Petunia said grumpily.

- - - - -

"I don't know _how_ you managed to drag me here." Ten minutes later, Petunia felt as grumpy as she had before. The tall, dark, stone walls loomed above them. Petunia glared at an innocent blade of grass poking out of a crack in the wall, and in a moment of some emotion she hadn't felt before, she closed her fingers around it and uprooted the whole plant with a single tug. That colour had been too familiar, but she could not quite recall where she'd seen it.

Laurel, standing and looking at her intently, asked, "Are you nervous, or are you angry? Since you don't' really look afraid at all to be. Just bad tempered."

Petunia scowled at her. "I'm not afraid! I just don't want to sneak into someone else's garden like a thief. I remember that Rapunzel's father had to give up his baby, and I hope I don't' have to do that to some witch. But anyway, it's just a stupid idea. Fairy tales aren't real. Magic and stuff isn't real, and girl's throwing long braids out of towers aren't real either!"

"Geez, have some imagination won't you?" Laurel grumbled in return. She wedged her hand into one of the cracks experimentally, and then her other, then lifted her legs and hung off the ground as if she was holding onto a trapeze. Petunia could see Laurel's fingertips starting to grow white from the strain of dangling without much of a grip. Unexpectedly, Laurel sighed, "Can't get across here. And we've already searched all around! And Aunt Arabella wouldn't approve of this—not that she would be able to help. She doesn't have as much power as your sister does."

Petunia looked away. "Don't remind me of that."

"I won't say anything if you come with me inside!" Laurel countered smoothly, her face surprisingly sly and manipulative. She let go off the wall and landed on the ground with a barely-audible thump as grass was squashed beneath her feet. Blood had risen into her cheeks already. It was a bad sign, if Petunia knew any. This face—this face was dangerous. But . . .

"Fine." She said quietly, trying not to meet Laurel's eyes. But they were magnetic, and Petunia just couldn't look away. They were shining in triumph. For some reason, the look was uncomfortably familiar. But still, Laurel was her only friend, and she knew she was not exactly the most ordinary of the children at school. She would not back out now just because her friend looked satisfied that she'd found her way. Petunia would act like that too.

Laurel smiled and beckoned, and they started around the perimeter of the estate. From above, Petunia knew, it was a perfect square, but up close the wall seemed to bend backwards then forwards, in a zigzag line with in-numerous cracks running across. There were still traces of the crumbling brown dust on Laurel's fingers, which she was running along the edge of the wall. Curious, Petunia also placed her hand on the brown surface and swiped it across, trying to feel whatever her friend might have picked up on. But all that came out was a huge cloud of dust that engulfed both she and her friend.

It took some time before the cloud finally settled down, and for Petunia to stop coughing. When her sight finally cleared she looked down in dismay. Her uniform was completely ruined! Her mother would have a loud scolding for her, before she agreed to wash it until it was presentable. But her attention was immediately caught not by the dust which had mixed into the wool of her jumper which she always wore no matter the weather; an outline of a door had made itself known.

Laurel was staring at her with astonishment vivid in her eyes. "How did you know it was there! Even I didn't sense it—maybe heaven knows you might have your sister's abilities as well. Well—wouldn't that be nice."

Petunia scowled at her. "Not at all." But in a small, distant corner of her mind she could imagine fitting in with whoever else had those strange abilities, maybe being able to use them for trivial pursuits such as cleaning, keeping things neat. Maybe cooking—no! she couldn't think like that and hope to be strange. "Well, are we going to enter?"

"If you insist." Said Laurel with a cheeky grin. Her fingers traced the outline of a wooden door, hidden by trellises of dead ivy and dust which had only settled because of the way it was tucked in a niche and hidden from the howling winds that came with winter. The door was strangely silent as it swung in.

Petunia hesitated. "Are you sure we should be doing this?"

Laurel merely grinned. "Why not?" and she grabbed Petunia by the arm and pulled her in.

Almost immediately the door swung shut behind them, as a blast of stale air hit here. The passage was very old. Petunia executed a brilliant twirl that would have made a ballerina envious, and stared hard at the door. She pushed her hand down and tried to open the door. Her reward was a sore shoulder and an equally sore leg, a failed attempt at kicking the door down. Somehow, that bundle of twigs was strong even though the walls were crumbling. "I knew this was a bad idea." She muttered, voice almost echoing in the still air.

"Don't worry." Laurel said confidently, striding in. "If there's a way in then there's a way out."

"Unless the entrance and exit are one and the same." Petunia retorted. She waited patiently, and sure enough, her eyes began to adjust to the very dim light; the source was almost invisible holes pricked through the ceiling, permitting only beams of light as thin as string, until it looked more like a mist of white than any wave. Slowly, she pressed her hand to the wall and walked forward cautiously, following Laurel's footsteps, soft but clear from her oversensitive ears. Every breath she took was perfectly audible.

It did not take Petunia very long to realise that the path was starting to slope. After a moment she asked hesitantly, "Do you think we're underground?"

"I. . . I think so." Laurel replied hesitatingly. She tried to make a joke. "You'd never had thought we'd find something so strange in such an ordinary neighbourhood!"

"Between you and Lily, I don't think it's ordinary at all." Petunia shot back quickly. She paused, then inquired thoughtfully, "If it's so boring, why do you stay?"

The footsteps stopped. Petunia paused and glanced up, making out Laurel's petite figure in the dim light. "My parents—we'll, I'll just say that I don't have a choice in living with my aunt. As for Aunt Arabella: I do not know why she lives here at the moment, but she doesn't have any abilities of her own. You know _ESP_ and stuff. I think it's got something to do with that cat shelter though. I'm not sure how long she's going to stay. Actually . . . I don't know much about her at all. Maybe she _isn't_ involved in that world."

"What world?" asked Petunia sharply. She almost ran into Laurel as she started walking again, but turned her body sideways and slid smoothly beside her, taking first spot. She continued keeping pace; soon the footsteps started again, slow at first but soon as steady as her own. Despite that, her face was grim.

"Nothing." Laurel replied after a few moments. "I think. We'll see, though, won't we?"

"Laurel?"

This time it was Laurel who ran straight into her. "Why'd you stop, Petunia?"

"I think there's an opening." Was the swift response. Petunia brushed her hands forward, trying to feel any surface above her or in front for a space that might indicate escape from this deathly dungeon. "But it might just be that we're trapped won here Laurel. I can't see an exit."

"Oh, let me see!" Laurel demanded. She pulled, not too harshly, on Petunia's sleeve and brushed her aside. Petunia couldn't see what had happened, but Laurel informed her, "Maybe _you _should rub your hands across again. It worked last time." Petunia did not come forwards, so she murmured, "I'll do it myself, then." She ran her hands across the surface.

Almost instantly a fog of dust arose, choking off Petunia's breathing like a filthy miasma. The dirt rolled her tongue. She found herself choking and gagging in moments, trying desperately to see past the dirty mist that had soaked up all the light. Now it was almost pitch black, and even if it were not Petunia had an awful feeling that, even if she came into light, she could not see. She shuddered. The darkness . . . it closed around her, as if the walls were moving in and on the verge of grounding her body into dust as fine as the fog. Maybe it was what the dust was made of in the first place—people who were too curious for their own good and were trapped here.

Laurel . . . after a moment, Petunia became aware of something cool sliding into her. It was not physical, exactly, but the change was very explicit right then. It took long seconds before she dared open her eyes once more. Laurel was standing over her with worry, and somehow the air seemed denser around her hands.

Petunia's eyes widened. "Laurel, you—"

Laurel smiled thinly, not hiding the worry in her face. As it was, Petunia could not quite understand why she was not shouting. _She_, certainly, felt like shrieking her lungs hoarse until her throat ground together and became even more parched than it already was. An older Petunia would wonder time after time, either sitting at the dinner table or looking through old photographs or diaries of her school days, _who_ Laurel really was, that she, at just nine—she was some months older than Petunia—acted almost like an adult in rare occasions. "I suppose I came into what was rightfully mine after all. But enough of that. Come on, let's get you out."

Sunlight was streaming in so Petunia did not protest. She allowed herself to be dragged out and spread out on the grass so sunlight hit her forehead and splayed shadows along the back of her eyelids. She sunlight was warm, and safe, and soothing, and above all it was light—it had all been in her head, Petunia suddenly realised. The dust triggered it, but the main effect had taken place inside her mind. The wonders of the human brain—she shuddered, even though it was as far as her train of thought went before being derailed because she knew nothing more detailed than that.

"What do you think, Petunia?" Laurel asked. The girl was sitting down beside her. "It's quite nice."

And it _was_ nice, but Petunia did not particularly care for the beautifully neat garden or the trimmed rows of lavenders, as much as she usually admired the sanctuaries they could become. Trees with brilliant blossoms were tucked carefully into corners to make the biggest possible contrast between the bricks of the walls, with lemon trees on which were hanging bright yellow bulbs, and miniature oranges, and—

Wait a minute. . .

"Laurel . . ." Petunia said carefully, catching her friend's eye. "Do you notice something wrong with this picture?"

The auburn haired girl turned to look at her, "What do you mean, Petunia?"

"Um . . . weren't the walls, _really_ very old when she looked at them?" Petunia answered, pointing at the red brick tiles. "And this certainly _looks_ like the garden we saw, so we couldn't have gone past it." Something was bothering her. It was a feeling she'd ignored for years, but still knew was out of place in times like this. When she was almost alone. An irregular tickling in the back of her head . . .

She spun around, almost stumbling in her haste to move further away.

- - - - -

The inside of the house was even bigger than she'd thought.

It was the oldest house she'd ever seen, with a checkerboard floor of black and white marble stretching the expanse of each room she looked in. If she had agoraphobia this house would be a nightmare. As it was only a flickering candle ahead of her kept her from racing away from the darkness hiding whatever might lurk in shadowy corners. But Yvonne liked the house, so Petunia supposed it was not too afraid. No girl of eight years she knew would be content to stay in such a strange place if they did not feel it was perfectly safe.

But still, it was very odd. Petunia found herself listening attentively for any sounds apart from the soft footsteps of the three girls clattering on the floor, looking for signs of inhabitancy such as a wrinkle on one of the perfectly straight couches, or maybe something slightly dusty, and feeling out for any hint of memory lingering in the wake of the owners. Now what this place needed, she thought, was a Lily Evans to liven things up. Her sister could shriek loudly like no one else, and then pretend that she'd been an angel the whole time.

That was it. This place was as empty as a bag of bones, where the soul had strayed away after being unanchored, and flitted up to the other side of the sky. It was too perfect, which was strange, because Petunia liked perfectly very much. Everything being nice and neat and straight was a welcome change from the chaos that seemed to follow her sister on her wanderings around the house. Lily, when she wished it, was a weather front difficult to ignore.

The loud clatter of her footsteps when she almost slipped made her wince. "I know it's not my place to criticise," she finally murmured, "but how can you live here?"

Yvonne Bloom, the young girl who lived here, turned to look at her. "I'm not really given a choice," she admitted, sounding unusually open to almost-strangers she'd only met a few times at school, the first time they'd spoken on a purely social basis. She hastily sat down, her hair falling into that same, rod-straight fashion down her back.

A classmate from school, though not a particularly close friend, the only feature of Yvonne Petunia could ever seem to remember was the thick locks of hair, an auburn shade of chestnut brown, framing her face. Now that they'd talked the particularly intense, blue eyes that peered out severely at the world, as if scolding whoever came into her sight. Coupled with the unnatural straightness about her, Yvonne was a personification of the perfect rooms, not to mention her social-studies teacher at school who was so bland only the insipid way her voice droned on could be memorized by any of her students. It was as if someone had hooked some strange machine directly to Yvonne's mind and pumped out everything that made her unique until she was no different than the poster-girl girls. She was so unoriginal Petunia would have forgotten her a moment later but for her startling looks and the great big house.

They proceeded to pass through a sizable number of rooms before entering one the size of the ground floor of Petunia's house. Yvonne gestured for them to sit, then crossed the room and flicked on one of the light switches. Light from a crystal chandelier immediately illuminated the room, casting away all shadows, and revealing cream coloured beds in the corner previously hidden. Yvonne smiled sheepishly, already looking different from the plain girl Petunia remembered.

"This is my bedroom." She told Rose and Laurel, who'd been silent all the way, "It's the only one with electrical lights since it costs too much to have the whole house wired up. My parents are not home and my minder is away shopping for groceries, so it's only us. And no, before you ask, I don't get lost in such a big place. I've lived here all my life. I suppose I'm used to the same corridors by now."

Petunia frowned and tugged on a sprig of her straight blonde hair. She did not bother braiding it now that it had been chopped off to frame her jaw. "Don't you get lonely here by yourself, Yvonne? There wouldn't be many people visiting a place like this without invitations."

Yvonne smiled sadly. "I'm used to it by now. And I suppose both of you understand what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"It's a nice place, though." Laurel offered, "Even if it's so big."

Petunia suddenly remembered that Yvonne was one of the people who always seemed to have many friends, but never really let her talk. She would sit with a huge crowd of giggling girls, and she'd watch from the sidelines as Yvonne tried to speak unsuccessfully. That had been a year ago. Now Petunia felt ashamed that her gaze just seemed to roll off Yvonne every single time she glanced at the girls. Yvonne, like Petunia, always stayed by the sidelines.

"That it is," said Yvonne, her smile a little more cheerful as she too settled one of the big armchairs. "So tell me—Laurel is it?—and Petunia, do you like my room? I chose a few of the designs myself, but most of it was there when we arrived, according to mother. That chair—I chose it, and that table I almost never use. But the clothes aren't really my choice at all."

The chair looked like it was made of dark solid wood, rather than that strange mix of glue and sawdust from before. Flame-patterned and coloured stitching was set on a golden background, as if jeering at the room and actively defying the perfection which was comforting and yet stark and frightening most of the time. The table was made of the same, black-brown wood but had numerous scratches that directly opposed Yvonne's words. Brightly coloured sheets of paper and coloured pencils were scattered over the surface, knocked out of the jar.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Petunia could see Yvonne following her gaze and frowning. She rose and gathered the pencils together, although she did not bother putting it back in the holder. All of a sudden, Petunia wondered why she had never spoken to Yvonne before. Inside she knew the answer—that someone like Yvonne probably lived a charmed life and would want nothing to do with the likes of her—but she refused to acknowledge that.

She took a good look around. "It is . . . very clean. What do you think, Laurel? Do you like cream and pure white?"

The girl was grinning. "You know, Yvonne, there's another way of living. I should show you to my Aunt's house, where I'm living for the moment, and introduce you to her many pets. You look like you need one. And her furniture—well, it's completely opposite yours. What do you say?"

"Laurel?" Petunia asked once more.

"Oh? _Oh_. I think white is fine, but sometimes there's too much whiteness and it blinds you. Do _you_ like it, Yvonne?"

Yvonne said, "Like I said, I don't really have a choice." She shrugged. "I might leave when I'm older, you know, to see the world?"

Petunia wondered why they were acting so close so quickly.

"But like I said, we don't really have a choice in what we do. We're children." Yvonne continued. "And children never have choices. We always follow what adults say because they are in charge. I don't know if I want to though. But that would be making a choice, when someone else always does that for me. I know—let me show you where I play!"

An older Petunia would wonder if she'd ever managed to grow up.

- - - - -

To be continued . . .

- - - - -


	3. Chapter 3

- - - - -

- - - - -

"Aunt Petunia!" Harry cried, startling the woman.

Petunia Dursley looked up in impatience at the ceiling. She was seated opposite her friend, fingers curled around a mug of steaming tea. But a glance at the clock showed her exactly why she should heed the warning. It ticked once more, and the alarm rang. The date changed. It was now July 30 1997. Harry's seventeenth birthday, though heaven knew why he had stayed so long. She shot up so quickly her chair fell over.

But it was too late. There was a shout at the door, and it blasted open with a force of red light. Petunia cringed, and clutching her friends wrist, dragged her away. "Get out now, Vernon, Dudley!" she cried, knowing they'd obey this voice. "I should have known . . ."

The people who entered, however, were not the ones she'd been half-expecting. The man who arrived first was not the one with red eyes that she'd heard her nephew describe to his friends on the rare occasion; instead, this person looked as though he'd once been slightly attractive, but had cut his face until no individual mark was distinguishable, or that someone had cut out with a butcher knife a sizable chunk of his nose. Looking at him, Petunia wondered why it was someone so unfamiliar—but she was sure he wasn't one of _his_ followers.

"Petunia Dursley?" the man growled, other people inching in the door after her. "I'm Alastor Moody. We're here to take your nephew somewhere safe. I recommend you hide as well. You don't want to invite You-Know-Who's wrath."

Petunia ignored him, and made a beeline for the rather tired-looking man behind him with shabby robes. Strange. She'd have thought that magic could repair them. "Name." She muttered.

He looked at her with something akin to surprise, eyes widening when he noted that her friend, standing behind her, was gripping a wand that was user-friendly. "I'm one of his father's friends. Remus Lupin. And though you have a right to know where he is going, you forfeited the chance to decide long ago. His godfather's dead, so I suppose I'm to take up the role."

"What was Lily's wand made out of?" she snapped, ignoring the expression of surprise that spread instantly across his face. Oh, he _looked_ like the person she'd seen in one of the photos that Headmaster sent her, but she was sure magic could be used to mask one's true face. "And answer quickly or she'll blast you straight out."

Lupin stopped staring. "Willow. And his was mahogany."

Petunia nodded and stepped back, wondering where she'd found the gall to threaten a wizard in the first place. Even with her friend backing her up. She supposed that some had more talent than others, but she could not really be sure. And the new she'd heard about this person was not a piece to be dismissed easily. She frowned and ran up the stairs, wondering why her nephew had called her. If he'd entered the master bedroom and found—

Her blood ran cold at the thought of the explaining she would have to do. When she entered she took one look and cursed the irony. Her senses buzzed, trying to find her bearings. He'd found it. "Why did you look in here?" she whispered more than asked.

Harry Potter ignored that question. "Why the bloody hell do you have something like this? Like these things? You're not a witch, and you don't belong in my world either! And you're not a squib either, are you?"

By now the others had filed up behind her; only one pair of eyes remained calm upon seeing what Harry was clutching in his hands. Petunia only half-heard her friend step forward, though she could feel herself leaning hard against the doorframe. "You shouldn't have found it." She muttered, walking forwards and sitting heavily on her bed, not noticing that Harry's two friends moved immediately out of her way. "And I didn't have a choice."

"Aunt Petunia?" he said, tone deceptively mild. It became intense with his next phrase. "_You always have a choice!_ No matter what the circumstances."

Petunia's friend took a seat on the other side of Harry.

"You!" he said in surprise, eyes widening when he got a good look at her. "But you died! In a _real_ car crash."

"Hence why your aunt was so shocked to see me." Said the woman, blue eyes fixed on him. "One of the things you recognise. I suppose you should know a little bit about her story, though it isn't my right to tell you. And the other—I'm not sure why you are so shocked in the first place. You should know by now that there is a very good reason that Petunia likes spying on her neighbours. And it is not just for gossip, though I think she likes that too."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

She fixed him with a stern glare, one that Petunia was very familiar with. But Harry did not squirm under that gaze—much. "Your aunt is a very good actress. She always has been."

- - - - -

3

- - - - -

With a four-year gap between their ages, it came as no surprise to Petunia Evans that Lily would not spend much time at the same school as she. The day she started her second year was the day Petunia began her last year at that school. Yet Lily received far more of a welcome than Petunia had, especially among their peers. Lily soon proved herself to be quick-witted and sharp, not to mention infuriatingly pretty and adorable.

She'd been sitting with Yvonne Bloom, who was garbed in brown that washed out her complexion, and Laurel Figg when she noticed her sister running towards the playground, about two weeks before their last year at her school ended. Being rather quiet and plain, though she did not think she was _ugly_, Petunia always stayed on the sidelines. An older Petunia wished she could have prepared herself for what Laurel told her that day.

"Where do you think you'll go next year?" Laurel began, uncharacteristically sober. Petunia noticed with concern that her friend was blooming but in a greyish way that suggested too much time out of the sun. Yet she knew that Laurel never stayed inside when she had the chance—her friend was just that type of person, always flitting around and running when she could. She'd been right all those years ago, when she thought Laurel could run quickly. After an afternoon of gardening, she'd foolishly welcomed a chance to stretch her legs . . .

Yvonne lowered her eyes so her tresses of chestnut hair curtained her eyes, hiding them from Laurel's intense gaze. She'd been teased about her eyes so many times, being a cross between electrical light and neon shine, like cold fire or blue stars. "I'll probably go wherever father decides. I think he's contemplating places like _Gregory's Elite Academy for Young Ladies of Fine Breeding_ or _The Katherine Watson Finishing School_. I do not have any consideration in his plans apart from convenience."

"Oh, stop talking like that," said Laurel, looking a bit more good-natured. "I've met your father before, and you shouldn't keep talking like that about him! And you shouldn't speak as if you were Elizabeth I or something, with her fine gowns and speech which would earn her pay at a dozen movies."

Yvonne smiled, looking up and returning Laurel's gaze full blast, "You're right. I shouldn't be so gloomy, or air my dirty linen in public."

Laurel shook her head. "Not _dirty_ linen, exactly. No offence, Yvonne, but it looks as if the stains are _embroidered_ into those blankets you have hung up."

They, Laurel and Petunia, had met Yvonne's father a year ago. Despite being friends for two years now, it had been their first time gazing upon Yvonne's rather rich father. He'd been . . . eccentric, to say the least, though there was steel within him that Petunia did not wish to provoke. She'd realised instantly where Yvonne got her dark hair from, even if Yvonne was rather quiet. It had been the first time, and the last time if Petunia had anything to do with it.

"What about you, Laurel?" asked Petunia carefully, watching her friend with half-closed eyes from the blinding sunlight, "you never tell us anything about your family. One moment you look as though there might be a break-through, then it's as if you cleaned that dirty speck of hope from your couch and rubbed it so hard that the surface shines as bright as that _stupid sun_."

The other two laughed easily, Yvonne lifting a hand to shade her eyes as she looked around the courts as children younger than they scampered around hurriedly in games that were more 'run-around-in-circles-while-screaming' than anything to do with their minds. Petunia followed her friend's gaze, wincing as their cheerful cries met her ears. After a moment, her eyes following a certain red-haired, green-eyed Evans, she shrugged and fixed her gaze on Laurel.

"Well?" she demanded.

The girl grinned. "Why should I disappoint you, Petunia dear? Besides, it's usually _you_ who cleans after yourself, fussing over this and that. You should become a house-keeper or something. It'll save you so much money from education!"

Petunia sniffed. "I intend to learn _thoroughly_."

There was something not quite right about Laurel's frown; they had not talked deeply and out of usual ten-year-old gossip for a while, and though Petunia enjoyed it immensely, there was also something missing from their conversations. As the lunch hour came to a close, Petunia persuaded Yvonne to help her corner Laurel.

"What about you, Laurel?" inquired Petunia, as the three left to the classroom they shared. They were waiting outside the door. "Are you going back to that . . . what was it—_magical_ _school_?"

Laurel sighed. "There's no not telling you, is there, Petunia? All right. I think Aunt Arabella is moving houses at the end of this year, and I know I'm probably not going to the same school as either of you, so we won't even be able to see each other in the holidays. You know? It's like when your neighbour moves away; you ought to write to each other, and you _mean_ to, but somehow it just slides away from your mind, and suddenly one day you realise that you don't play together any longer."

Suddenly, Petunia wished she had not asked. When the teacher arrived she entered the classroom silently, trying and failing to pay attention to the work done. The rest of the day crawled by, and Petunia was never gladder to see her mother arriving to escort she and Lily home. As if to create the biggest possible contrast, Lily's face was aglow with happiness that could be seen a mile away. Petunia only needed to look once to turn away and try not to sound bitter; Lily was _always_ happy, with her new friends and her wonderful life.

She could not remember her mother every paying this much attention to _her_ when she told of her life at school—though, admittedly, her life had never been crammed full like Lily's—and nor had Rose ever really questioned her after her first few curt words. Petunia strode forwards in the long-memorised trip, determined to avoid Lily and all that horrendously happiness. Unfortunately, Lily suddenly had a mind of her own and followed Petunia at a running pace.

"Petunia?" the younger girl murmured, eyes wide, voice surprisingly loud. "Would you like to see the picture I drew?" Lily held it out, giving her a bright smile.

A sudden fury seized Petunia, drowning out all rational thinking and any affection. It was the type of fury that only occurred in teens, because their brains had not yet fully developed in some areas—and she could not help but see the world as red, especially those green eyes that were so trusting. Why should Lily always be the popular one? The one everyone loved? Petunia liked small chores at home, she liked routine. And that was convenient, so no one complained. But Lily . . .

She tore the paper out of Lily's hand, ignoring the surprised and frightened look on her sister's face, and she glared down with something strong, yet weaker than hatred, in her eyes. Frustration . . . her sense of injustice . . . Petunia did not stop to think. Lily . . . her hand moved to rip the paper into shreds.

"Petunia!" Lily cried.

The look on her sister's face; it snapped her out of her trance. She looked down to see the paper untouched, shoved it back into her sister's hands, and stalked off. She needed to be alone.

- - - - -

She remembered her last visit to Yvonne's house before the two parted ways.

"I'm sorry, Pet," said Yvonne softly, reclining on her head.

It was just she and Petunia; Laurel had already moved away, somewhere with her Aunt. Petunia was not sure where, and could not be bothered remembering. Something like 'Little Wings' or that sort of nonsense. But no, she did _not_ miss Laurel. She didn't! Petunia shook her head in return. "No, I understand. It's too much to hope that we'll go somewhere the same. Just look at your house! And look at mine!"

Yvonne stared at her and smiled sadly. "It's got nothing to do with the size of houses, Petunia."

"No, it doesn't, does it?" said Petunia, feeling as though she'd deflated visibly. She stood up quickly, and paced up and down the room. After a moment, a thought occurred to her. "Are you going to the same school as Laurel? Don't worry, you can tell me, I shan't do anything too out-of-control. It's your father who is sending you there, so it ought to be he that I blame for splitting the two of us apart, now that Laurel's already gone. But I suppose it shouldn't matter, should it! I can't blame him, or anyone else." She laughed.

"You know," said Yvonne calmly, her vivid eyes sliding off Petunia and staring at some corner while she picked at the threads on her mattress, "it's the first time I've seen you really motivated from anger. When you are angry you tend to—stay somewhat controlled, at least in front of others. And no, you can't really blame him. It's not his fault, either. It just happens, you know? And anyway, we'll write to each other and see each other in the holidays."

Petunia's face turned sour, and she sat down again. Her voice was quiet when she murmured, "Yes. We will, won't we? And, there's Laurel, too, of course. But she's already gone, and school is going to end in just a few weeks. Very quickly."

For a moment Yvonne did not speak, concentrating very hard on her mattress. Then she raised her head, and said, "Why don't we look into that house we saw that day while coming back from school? You know, just before Laurel left? I saw some wonderful gardens, and someone might be persuaded to give you a few samples. You like gardening, don't you?"

"A year ago and you would be feeling as protestant as I." Said Petunia, staring at her friend in disbelief. Was this really the quiet, self-possessed girl that was Yvonne? Still, she followed her friend and they slipped out, Petunia wincing as afternoon light shone in her face. The gardens were the biggest contrast imaginable to the indoor rooms, which Petunia could not imagine lightening up. Grass crunched under her feet as she made her way through thickets; the two raced down the open road, ignoring the younger children.

Soon they were standing outside foreboding walls once more, and Petunia wondered why this scene seemed awfully familiar.

"This way," hissed Yvonne, tucking her luxurious hair under her collar and sneaking stealthily into the shadows. Despite the glaring whiteness of her skirt, the girl seemed to blend perfectly, somehow, into shadows. Petunia could understand that if they were still in Yvonne's house, which was as blank as an unwritten sheet of paper, but in black? She started as Yvonne poked her head out. "C'mon!"

Evans glanced around guiltily, sure she was going to be seen, and someone would ask why she was sneaking onto private property—again—but Petunia could not deny that there was a certain thrill in what she did. It was . . . different, to say the least, from the warm safety that her home aspired to be. When she realised that she, in fact, looked completely ordinary and was therefore ignored, she slipped after Yvonne, her hair too short to also tuck in.

She looked around thoughtfully. "It's very dark here," Petunia observed; but she was not afraid of the dark, as much as early morning. Her experiences, of that nasty, draining, cold feeling still lingered in her memories well beyond its time.

Yvonne did not look at her. "So is the chamber to my house, and you and Laurel passed through easily." She groped around in the dark, touching Petunia's arm by accident; but why she came back . . .

"It was your idea to come," said Petunia somewhat coolly, drawing back and squinting at the pale outline of the door through which they'd entered. "Why are you backing out now?"

"What are you talking about?"

Wait a moment . . .

"Didn't you just touch my arm?"

Petunia hardly needed to concentrate to feel Yvonne's startled gaze upon her. "I'm way over here, Petunia. What are you talking about? Maybe it's just some dust."

A cold feeling rolled down her spine. If it was not Yvonne . . . she heard her friend flick a switch and the lights in the warehouse immediately blazed on. Instead of the tastefully arranged flowers Petunia had seen through a window, the huge room was dark and empty but for a single table in the centre. She did not get time to wonder what it held. The person behind her had already latched onto her arm with hands bigger than that of a child.

She spun around, and she felt her face set into an expression of disbelief. "You!" Petunia wretched her hand away. He did not protest. "Mr Muggle. Why—what--?"

The man seemed to be preoccupied with something else, his gaze already turned towards the table in the centre. "No. You're not her . . . might I have made a mistake? No—they _said _it was Evans . . . perhaps the other. Rose? Lily?" He strode towards Yvonne with a determined look.

Yvonne was standing behind the table, her hand still on the white switch where she'd frozen. But when Mr Muggle neared her friend, Petunia saw Yvonne step forwards and grab whatever was on the table, a box that Petunia could not fix her eyes on for some reason. It was crumbly, and probably rubbish, she knew—but Yvonne was looking at it as though it was the most brilliant treasure in the world.

The man pulled out a glossy black stick that looked as though it was made of ebony, perhaps mahogany. "Put—that—down!" snarled Mr Muggle, brandishing the wand threateningly.

"Your name isn't inscribed there," said Yvonne, clutching the box to her chest in a rather protective manner, "it doesn't _belong_ to you! If anything it should go to the—wait a minute." The young girl's eyes narrowed. "You're not allowed to do anything if Petunia's here!"

Mr Muggle's mouth stretched into a taunting smirk. "I don't think so. If it's not Petunia, then it'll be someone else in her family. And she'll find out about it anyway. As it is . . . you're right. It _does_ belong to Petunia. Why don't you take it home, maybe show it to your sister? I'm sure she'll find it very interesting. She'll probably need it too, if she wants to get anywhere in life. About what Yvonne was going to say—"

But Petunia never had a chance to listen. The temperature of the room seemed to drop exponentially, until she was sure ice would have formed had there been moisture. It was like night in the desert . . . and Mr Muggle had stopped talking. Both he and Yvonne were fixated on something to her right, where the cold originated.

The already dim room darkened further until she felt as though she'd dropped into a pit where no light fell . . . it was so cold . . . she felt so lonely, staying by herself while her parents were taking Lily out to play. Petunia remembered their faces, disappointment, as their images faded slowly away . . . . Someone was screaming—

She snapped her eyes open. It was Mr Muggle, lying shivering on the floor, and Yvonne, backed into a corner by something. Petunia could feel that the haunting air seemed to come from there, but, what _was_ it? Did she really want to know, she wondered, if it could reduce a grown man into something that resembled a dead body? He wasn't dead, she knew, he was breathing, but he looked very much like an aunt who'd been in a coma.

_Oh god . . . _.

Petunia huddled down, wishing that she could feel cheerful, even irritable. Anything was better than this . . .

She SCREAMED, loudly

. . . and something rushed in, a source of light that warded away the darkness. Petunia could not see its form, it was too bright; she shielded her throbbing eyes from its light, then with energy she did not know she had, she ran over to Yvonne, and grabbed her friend's hand.

"Lets go!" she hissed, pulling Yvonne upright. Petunia looked around quickly, wincing as the bright object moved towards Mr Muggle, and took the black box from Yvonne.

Yvonne seemed to gain her senses. She proved to be faster than Petunia, dragging her towards the door despite the effort Petunia was putting into running as well. The sooner they escaped _whatever_ had caused such misery, the better, Petunia thought, the two almost finishing the stretch of ground towards the door.

But before she could make it something lifted her up, and threw her down not too hard; Petunia clutched the box, not letting it roll away. A similar thud signalled that her friend had also fallen.

The man standing above her was old, very old with a long white beard, but he looked not very friendly at all. Before she could help herself, Petunia asked him, "Were you the one who sent that magic creature in? My sister can do strange things too, but nothing like that."

The man paused, his face almost puzzled. "Are you by any chance named Evans?"

Petunia hesitated. "Well, that's my last name."

He lowered his stick, that Petunia now suspected to be a wand. That puzzled expression had disappeared into understanding, and deep thought that befitted one his age. "I see. You should leave now. Don't show anyone that box. Do not even touch what is within."

"Yes sir." Said Petunia automatically, not able to prevent her words. There was an aura of power with this man whose name she did not know, that told her not to argue, and she found herself obeying. She scrambled up, as did Yvonne, and the two ran out the door as quickly as their legs could carry them.

- - - - -

To be continued…

- - - - -

**A/N:**

I want to note that this story ignores Deathly Hallows, as it was planned before that & the ages wouldn't make sense.

As you might have guessed, the person who 'discovered' Petunia in the warehouse was actually Dumbledore. My reasoning is thus: according to Petunia, he'd been in contact with him for a while. Although this might have been just because she was raising Harry, it also said that 'his last' was the letter when Harry was first delivered. Therefore all the letters before must have come before Harry came to live with the Dursleys. If Petunia had not been in contact with Lily for years, then it would make very little sense for Dumbledore to actually keep in touch with Petunia. I invented that scene to explain this.


End file.
